


i hope you don't mind

by Kanoodle



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanoodle/pseuds/Kanoodle
Summary: Five times Peter told Gamora he loved her, and one time he didn't have to.





	i hope you don't mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poprocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocks/gifts).



> A birthday gift for @poprocks, and an excuse for shameless fluff!

**i.**

This thing between them is odd. Delicate. Breakable in a way that Gamora finds terrifying. She is not built for gentleness. She is wires and parts and hard muscle. She is hard lines and unyielding metal on broken bones.

Somehow, Peter – all of the Guardians, really – has coaxed her into being soft. Such a thing would have been a show of weakness with her siblings, would have painted a target on her back and left her vulnerable. She has grown, though. In a year, she has changed into a new person. She allows herself to smile, to joke, to dance. Her friends do not flinch away at her touch, do not stare at her with wariness and accusation in their eyes. When they look at her, they see _Gamora,_ not a weapon and not a means to an end.

Gamora likes this new version of herself, she finds. She refuses to ever go back.

And Peter – odd, infuriating, childish Peter – treats her as a person. He is gentle, and when they were first dancing this odd dance, his steps were every bit as hesitant and tentative as hers. Every careful step forward was deliberate and measured, and while they stepped on one another’s toes more than Gamora cares to admit, she thinks they’ve managed to find their rhythm.

“We’ve always been good partners,” he had told her one evening, as they danced to one of the new songs on his Zune. He had lifted his arm, spinning her around, and when she faced again, he had worn a bright, lopsided smile. “I knew this would work.”

Now, she lies with him on what they’ve started calling _their_ bed, the fur of the blankets tickling against her bare skin. With her ear pressed against his sternum, she hears his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice.

“And then they get to Cloud City, right?” he says. “And they land the _Millennium Falcon_ , and this super cool-looking dude steps out with these guards, and it turns out it’s Lando Calrissian. And it’s like, _uh-oh,_ this dude’s totally gonna kick Han’s ass, and he’s probably still pissed at Han for— hey, are you even listening?”

Gamora hums in response, tilting her head back to peer up at him. Her cheek presses against his shoulder as he frowns at her.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m listening.”

“What’s the last thing I said, then?”

“The man seemed angry over the ship Han stole.”

“ _Won._ Han _won_ the ship in a card game.”

“Sorry,” she says, not feeling very sorry at all. She corrects, “The ship he _won._ ”

Peter’s eyes narrow as he stares at her, but the press of his lips betray the pleased smile he tries to hide. For a moment, she feels a surge of affection, of warmth suffusing her veins like warm sunlight, and she tilts up, capturing his lips in a kiss.

He returns it in kind, breathing out a soft laugh as she pulls away.

“What was that for?”

Gamora shrugs lightly, her hand smoothing up his sternum as she lays her cheek against his shoulder again. “Nothing,” she says, and she smiles to herself.

The captain’s quarters are cleaner, these days, mostly at Gamora’s insistence, with Yondu’s belongings carefully packed and put to one side. They share the space, now, and have for months; she still isn’t entirely sure when this stopped being Peter’s bunk and started being _theirs,_ but she finds it doesn’t exactly matter. Peter had simply opened his arms, and when she was ready, she stepped into them.

She finds she appreciates that – how Peter opens a door and waits for her to step through. Maybe he tries to coax her through it faster, tries to offer encouraging words or assurances, but he never tries to force her. Never grabs her wrist and _yanks,_ like she had expected of him when they first met.

Gamora realizes a second too late that Peter has fallen completely silent, and she tilts her head back again. He has an odd, warm look on his face, something open and vulnerable that feels reserved entirely for Gamora, and she feels herself smile again.

“Peter?”

He covers her hand with his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. His gaze drops, and his jaw clenches briefly.

“Peter?” she says again, puzzled. “Are you—”

“I love you.”

She freezes.

Those three words rip the air from the room, and Gamora stares at Peter, face slack and eyes too wide, her entire body tense like she means to bolt or fight. Her pulse thunders in her ears, and she forgets how to even _breathe_.

When was the last time she heard those words? Has she _ever_ heard them? She must have, as a child, but her memories of her home planet and her family are hazy and drenched in blood. Her mother had loved her, she knows. Her father, too. They must have said those words to her, but she only remembers screaming.

And as the silence stretches, she feels her surprise rolling over into panic. She has no idea what to say or do, but those words have left a wide, yawning gap in her chest. She feels like she’s falling.

“—ora. _Quadrant_ to Gamora. Come in, Gamora.”

She blinks at him, eyes too-wide and lips still parted, and she slowly sits up.

Peter props himself up with his elbows, and she sees the way concern flashes across his face.

“Gamora, hey—”

She can’t find her voice to respond, and Peter sits up fully, then, his hand resting against her elbow. She flinches, and he waits patiently, brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth turned downward. Only after she offers a small, almost imperceptible nod does Peter finally move closer, wrapping his arms around her.

They remain like that for a few breaths, Gamora searching for an answer that won’t come. Peter _waits_ which is a miracle unto itself. He is not and has never been a patient man, yet with _her_ , he manages it. He waits, silent and supportive, and she feels frustration bubbling in her gut. They’re just... words, she reminds herself. They’re just _words_ , but now she has to think: does she feel the same way? _Can_ she feel the same way? And more importantly, if she does, if she can, can she bring herself to _say it?_

She croaks out, “Peter, I...”

“It’s okay,” he says into her hair. “Gamora, really, it’s okay. I don’t need you to say it back.”

That wasn’t what she expected to hear, and she pulls back, still in the circle of his arms.

“I mean it,” he says before she can question him. Gamora searches his face, sees it set in that familiar, endearingly honest way. “Seriously. I didn’t say it for you to just parrot it back.”

“But...”

He shakes his head sharply, and he rests a hand against her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over the scar etched into the swell of her cheek. “I just wanted to tell you, okay? I just wanted you to know, because we get up to some weird shit ‘cause of what we do, some of it, like, _wildly_ dangerous, and I just...”

His expression pinches, and Gamora sees a shadow fall across his face before it quickly disappears.

“I wanted you to know,” he repeats quietly.

Gamora falls quiet again, studying his face. She expects to see anticipation, maybe even hope, but instead, Peter looks solemn, earnest.

Almost a little sad.

She lets out a shuddering breath, nodding, and Peter pulls her close again, dropping a kiss atop her head.

“You can tell me if you’re ready,” he murmurs against her hair. “Whenever you’re ready, and not a second before.”

 

**ii.**

A few days later, she finds Peter with Mantis in what the Ravagers might have deemed a lounge area, though the Guardians now use it as a dedicated training area, after the _incident_ involving a certain amateur and a particular arrow. Mantis fires a blaster at metal crates with crude, angry faces painted over them in place of targets, courtesy of Peter. Gamora pauses in the doorway, not wanting to startle them. Mantis fires five shots, missing the targets entirely. Gamora moves to enter, but she pauses once Peter begins speaking.

“I’m worried I freaked her out,” he says, apparently picking up an earlier conversation. Gamora steps back into the hall, pressing back against the frame of the door and peeking in. He takes the blaster from Mantis and removes the spent cartridge. He does so slowly while Mantis watches with an intense focus. “Like, I just— blurted it out, and she froze up, you know?” He slips the new cartridge into the blaster, and Mantis takes the gun from him carefully. “Gamora _never_ freezes.”

“That is very unusual,” Mantis says seriously. She raises the gun with both hands, sighting the target at the far end of the room.

“A little higher,” Peter says absently, and Mantis makes the necessary adjustment. “Take your time lining up the shot.”

Mantis makes a quiet noise of affirmation as she aims.

“It’s just,” he says, pulling a hand through his hair, “I don’t want to come on too strong, you know?”

Mantis hesitates before nodding, and Peter frowns at her.

“You don’t know what that means, do you?”

And Mantis shakes her head. “Not at all.”

Peter sighs, though it nearly sounds like a laugh. “Forget it. Fire when ready.”

Mantis nods again, taking her time before she fires off five more shots. Only one blast hits its target, though another comes relatively close.

“Much better,” Peter says.

Mantis grins at him, lowering the gun.

“I think she really likes me, though,” he continues, shifting his weight to lean back against a nearby table. “Like, I think... I think we’re doing pretty good, you know? But I dunno if she’s, you know, _there_ with me, or if she ever will be.”

“I could find out for you, if you would like,” she says.

“ _No,_ ” Peter replies immediately. “ _God_ no. She would _totally_ break your arm.”

Gamora smiles, despite herself. He’s entirely right to warn Mantis, of course. Gamora _would_ break her arm for the breach of privacy, but it would probably be a clean break. Something easily healed.

Mantis, however, looks chagrined, her antennae drooping.

Peter winces, and he quickly adds, “But I appreciate the offer.”

The two of them fall silent, after that. Peter frowns in thought while Mantis reaches out a hand. She pauses, head tilted in question, and when Peter notices, he offers a quick, reluctant nod. Mantis takes hold of his hand, her eyes slipping shut as her antennae flare with a soft light. She inhales sharply, eyes opening as she smiles.

“I think,” she hears Mantis say slowly, “I think... you are very in love with her.”

Peter laughs, something a little rueful in the sound, and Gamora’s lips press together in concern. This situation feels all too familiar, and apparently, she isn’t the only one to think so. Peter says, “Yeah, pretty sure we established that a while ago.”

“Yes,” Mantis says, almost apologetically. “But I think it is different, now. Brighter. And you are very afraid.”

Peter seems to sag a little, shrugging his shoulder. “Yeah. I am. I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“It is very romantic.” Mantis smiles wistfully, and Peter laughs again.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I think,” Mantis starts, but she frowns a little, slowly pulling her hand away from Peter’s. The glow of her antennae disappears. “I think, maybe, you are not alone in feeling this way. And I think Gamora does not like being afraid.” Peter frowns at her, but for once, he stays silent, waiting for her to continue. “And I think... she would not allow herself to be afraid unless it was for a very good reason.”

Peter’s expression turns pensive, gaze turning inward, before he lets out a soft sigh. “I really love her,” he murmurs, almost too softly for Gamora to hear. Her chest clenches with the sincerity in his words, and her breath rushes from her.

“I know,” Mantis says eagerly, almost bouncing. “I find it very sweet. I think you should not be afraid to tell her what you feel, because maybe it will help you both become less afraid.”

He shoots her look, equal parts incredulous and amused and grateful, before he waves a hand, gesturing to the targets. “C’mon. We should focus.”

Gamora hesitates before pulling back, heading toward the galley.

 

**iii.**

It’s completely by accident that Gamora and Peter were chasing this man. They had only meant to stop for supplies, and Peter had been searching through bounties on Rocket’s scanner as they waited for the clerk to return with the shipment form. The device had pinged, and when Peter had elbowed Gamora, they both looked up to see an almost mirror-perfect copy of a mugshot staring at them with wide, shocked eyes.

The running and shouting had started immediately after that.

Leerin Sark, a man wanted for several murders, is wild with terror, and nothing is as dangerous as a cornered, desperate animal. He takes a hostage, a teenage Krylorian girl, and uses her as a shield as he backs into an empty, half-constructed house. They decide to attack on two fronts. Peter, walking unarmed through the front door, talking the man down, or at least to distraction. Gamora, through the back, using her skills to sneak her way into the house.

Gamora creeps through the rooms, staying low to the floor, and tracks the sound of voices to the living room.

“You don't have to do this, man,” she hears Peter say. Gamora presses her back against a wall and peeks around the corner, sees Peter with both hands up, eyebrows knit together. Around him are tools and ladders, with masonry in neat stacks against a completed wall. Peter’s gaze never flicks to her, though he flexes his fingers slightly, acknowledging her position and telling her to _hold._ “Just let the girl go, and you and me can talk this out, okay?”

“ _Stay back!_ ” Leerin screams, and he adjusts his grip on the girl to emphasize his point. “Leave me alone, or I’ll kill her, I swear.”

Leerin keeps the girl in front of him, and from this vantage point, Gamora sees only their backs. The barrel of Leerin’s gun presses against the girl’s temple, and his hand trembles, grips the gun like a drowning man clings to a lifeline. An errant twitch could end the girl’s life. The hostage is still, though the tremor that racks her breath now and again betrays her fear.

“You and I both know I can’t leave you with her,” Peter says. His voice is calm, but his shoulders are tense, his eyes hard. His weapons sit on the doorstep, along with the trigger for his mask. Their slipshod plan leaves him as the distraction, and while the plan was entirely his, Peter still complained about being so vulnerable when Gamora had left him. “Put the gun down, Leerin. We can settle this quietly.”

“Where’s your partner?”

“She left to get help,” Peter lies, and Gamora has to commend him for how convincing he sounds, how he barely skips a beat. “It’s just you and me right now, Leerin, but I need you to let the girl go.”

“Why, so you can arrest me? Huh? Sell me out to the Nova Corps so they can ship me to the Kyln?” Leerin takes a step back, dragging the girl with him; she chokes back a sob. “No. _Fuck_ no. I’m leaving, and she’s coming with me.”

Peter takes a step closer, and Leerin responds with another step back. “You leave with her, and you get every Corpsmen in the quadrant breathing down your neck. If you let her go now, we can figure something out. No one has to get hurt.”

“Fuck you.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Leerin—”

“I’m not an idiot!”

Leerin levels his gun at Peter, and Gamora leaps from her position behind the wall, looping her arm beneath Leerin’s gun arm and driving it upward as he fires a shot. The bullet buries itself in the ceiling, showering Peter in drywall as he dives forward and grabs the girl. Two more wild shots fire just as Gamora twists, spinning the two of them into the next room, and she forces them into a controlled fall. The gun clatters out of Leerin’s hand when he hits the floor, face-first, and Gamora grabs a handful of his hair, slams his head against the floor once, then twice. The man stills.

“Stay down,” she snarls. She glances back into the living room, and her stomach drops when she sees the splash of red on the floor. “Peter?”

“We’re okay,” he calls back, his voice tight. He looks up from where he’s kneeling, shielding the Krylorian girl, who clings to his shirtfront, pale and trembling. He rocks back on his heels, his left arm held tightly to his side, and Gamora sees the bleeding wound on his upper arm. He tracks her line of sight and shakes his head. “Just a graze. I’m— _Gamora!_ ”

Even before Peter shouts, Gamora knows something is wrong from the widening of his eyes. She throws herself to one side as Leerin awkwardly swings a knife at her, and he rolls away, grabbing up the fallen gun. The gun's barrel fixes on Gamora, but Gamora's thrown blade buries itself between Leerin's eyes. He sways, eyes wide and staring, and he collapses, dead.

The room falls silent, then, save for the girl's muffled sobs against Peter's chest, before Peter heaves out a long breath.

“That was badass,” he says.

 

The Nova Corpsmen arrive several minutes later, comforting the girl far more eloquently than Peter had managed. Peter’s arm is bandaged, the units are appropriately transferred, and the two of them are left standing in front of the half-constructed house, in a bit of a daze.

“So that happened,” Peter says to break the silence.

Gamora only hums in agreement before she adds, “You did well.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees the way he goes still and thoughtful, blinking as he digests this small bit of praise. She turns away to return to the marketplace. Gamora hears him hurrying to catch up, and when she looks back at him, he’s grinning. “And _you_ were so awesome.”

Gamora shakes her head with a familiar sense of exasperation as she faces forward again, hiding the small, amused smile that curls her lips.

“ _Seriously_ ,” he insists. “The way you just chucked that knife at him? _So_ badass.”

“Peter,” she says, though it lacks any of the sharpness of her usual warnings.

He falls into step beside her, nudging her playfully with his good shoulder. ”No wonder I’m in love with you.”

She turns to look at him, then, startled, but he’s still wearing that giant, impish grin. She rolls her eyes, but she pauses in her step long enough to pull him down for a quick kiss.

 

**iv.**

Gamora isn’t entirely sure why she lets the others talk her into these things, but somehow, they do, and she ends up chaperoning several unruly children in booze-drenched dives.

She sits at the bar, facing the room with her glass in hand – some dark-colored whisky that, given her modifications and two livers, does little in the way of intoxicating her. The room is filled with the low buzz of conversation, the air thick and heavy with the stench of alcohol. In a far corner, she sees Rocket and Drax gambling at a table, laughing uproariously; beside them, Mantis watches with dark, curious eyes, equal parts puzzled and entertained – a look the girl wears often. On the other side of the room, Kraglin appears to be using Groot to attract women. A common tactic, Peter had assured her the first time it had happened. “Draw them in with something cute and adorable,” he had explained, “then keep them hooked with your sparkling wit and personality.”

Except, apparently, Groot’s antics had so enamored anyone who had come close that they ignored Kraglin entirely. Gamora hides her pitying smile behind her glass.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” she hears, and when she turns, she sees Peter grinning at her, his cheeks red and eyes sparkling in a way that tells her he’s nearing his limit. “You come here often?”

“Peter,” she says in turn, patient and level. Peter collapses into the seat beside her. “What are you doing?”

“ _Shh, shh._ ” He waves a hand, the gesture loose and almost floppy, and he laughs. His hair falls across his forehead, and he pushes it back out of his eyes. (He could use a haircut, Gamora thinks.) “Come on. Just play along.”

Gamora sighs, shaking her head before she dutifully says, “No. This is my first time here.”

Peter grins before (unsuccessfully) schooling his expression into an approximation of his usual roguish smirk. He rests an elbow on the counter top, propping up his chin with his palm. “If that’s the case, I should show you a nice welcome. Can I buy you a drink?”

She gives him a flat look, lifting her tumbler of whisky. “I already have one.”

Peter frowns at her, but undeterred, he corrects, “Can I buy you _another_ drink?”

Gamora continues to look unimpressed, but admittedly, she _does_ find the situation amusing. She’s not entirely sure what game Peter is playing at, but considering the state of him, she’s reasonably sure _he_ isn’t sure where he’s going with this, either. It isn’t the first time he’s asked her to play along with a game for which he barely knew the rules, and it certainly won’t be the last.

“I’m seeing someone,” she tells him, and she feels her traitorous mouth quirk in a muted smile when Peter barks out a startled laugh.

“Yeah? I bet he’s super handsome.”

Gamora rolls her eyes.

“And, like, _so_ talented.”

She scoffs.

“And _so_ completely, head-over-heels in love with you,” he says.

Gamora pauses with her glass halfway to her lips, and she glances at him. Peter’s expression has shifted, something sincere in the way he smiles at her, now. Warm and sweet and so uniquely _Peter,_ and something in her chest twists at the sight.

“I mean, who wouldn’t be?” he asks, and his expression softens further into something almost wistful. “You’ve gotta be the coolest, smartest, most amazing woman in the universe, which probably makes him the luckiest asshole to ever live.”

Gamora takes a breath, staring pensively down at her drink. Then, she turns in her seat, mirroring his posture – an elbow on the bar, her chin resting atop the back of her hand. She smiles, looking up at him through her lashes, and when his eyes go wide, she has to restrain the little surge of victory she feels for beating him in his own game.

“Maybe you _can_ buy me a drink,” she purrs.

Peter blinks, surprised, but she catches his thousand-watt grin before he waves down the bartender. “Another glass for my _gorgeous_ girlfriend, please!”

 

**v.**

Smoke fills the air, and her eyes water, her lungs burn. Embers fall against her exposed skin, but she ignores it entirely, flinging aside slabs of what might have once been wall.

“Peter?”

She falls silent, waiting, heart slamming against the inside of her ribs. No answer.

“ _Peter!_ ”

Nothing.

It was an easy job. The Guardians had been hired to eliminate a band of slavers stationed on this godforsaken planet, and all of the information they had gathered told them the slavers were amateurs. Intimidating bastards with the benefit of high-tech weaponry on their side, but cowards and idiots otherwise. Their stronghold, though, had been a maze, forcing them to split up and enter the fortress from different directions. They kept in constant contact with one another, keeping a running tally of how many men and women they had eliminated.

Peter, liar that he is, had been “winning.”

It had been going well.

And then it hadn’t.

Because some idiot, at some point, had decided that death was better than prison, that eliminating the Guardians and all the people they had kidnapped would be even better, and had set a bomb to bring the whole place down.

“I’ve got a plan,” Peter had shouted over the comms, which was never as comforting as he meant it to sound.

Even worse, considering his plan put him within spitting distance of the bomb and the idiot guarding it.

The supports of the room creak in warning as Gamora forces her way through, climbing over concrete and metal. The bomb had still gone off, but the damage was minimized; they have time before the building will collapse entirely, time enough to evacuate the prisoners and the colonists they had kidnapped, but not much of it.

Rocket’s voice crackles over the comm, heavy and gruff. “Gamora. Get out of there. We don’t got time.”

She ignores him.

“ _Gamora,_ ” he says, “listen. I know you don't wanna hear this, but think about this logically. You heard how close he got. You heard how big that boom was.”

She ignores him again.

Rocket grunts in frustration. “That place is about to fall down around your ears. You got minutes, at best. Get the hell _out._ ”

She snarls when she comes across another slab of concrete barring her progress. Her hands burn as she shoves it away, and she ignores the shouts of her teammates over the comms, telling her to leave.

She shouts, “ _Peter!_ ” over the groaning of metal, the crackling of embers, the shifting of masonry.

And then she hears it – a pained, rattling breath.

Gamora rushes forward, tossing away more of the fallen masonry until she finds him, half-pinned, half-shielded by a heavy slab of metal. His mask lies in pieces nearby, bent and shattered and ruined. She digs him out, ignoring the way the twisted metal cuts and burns her hands. They’ll heal later. What’s important is that they get out _now._

It feels like it takes hours to free him, and once she does, she feels her stomach plummet at the state of him – ashen and bloodied and covered in soot, his clothing torn by debris. She recognizes the ugly, ragged hole of a bullet wound at his waist, and she tries to determine what other damage he may have suffered. Broken ribs, probably. A concussion, at least. Internal bleeding.

A grim, sinister part of her says, _There’s no way he survived._

She ignores it.

She kneels beside him, hands shaking as she feels along his neck for a pulse. She finds it, weak and thready, and allows herself one brief second of relief.

He’s still alive.

“I have him,” Gamora finally barks out over the comm, and the cacophony of voices go silent, stunned. She slips an arm beneath Peter’s shoulders, grunting with the effort of pulling him up into a sitting position. There’s no time to lift him gently. She tucks his head beneath her chin, and for an endless, agonizing second, she remembers how _frail_ he truly is, how delicate and all too Terran. “Prepare the ship. He needs medical attention.”

Rocket takes over, she thinks, shouting commands over their shared line, but Gamora tunes it out. She readies herself to stand, but there’s a hitch in Peter’s breath that makes her stop. He shifts, coughing and letting out a pained noise, and he pries his eyes open.

“Ow,” he says.

“Peter.” She cups his cheek, coaxing him to focus on her, though his gaze slips and slides, eyes fluttering as unconsciousness threatens to take him again. “Peter. Stay awake.”

His eyes are bleary, unfocused, and he smiles weakly. “’Mora.” His voice is little more than a wheeze. He coughs again, and her breath freezes in her lungs when she sees blood dribble from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m here,” she says, desperation raking up her ribs. “I’m here. Stay awake.”

“Hopin’ I’d see you,” he whispers, the words distant and running together. “Knew it’d work.”

“Knew what would work?”

“Th’ plan.” His hand twitches where it rests against his chest – a truncated form of one of his usual grand gestures. “Threw one of Rocket’s shields over th’ bomb. Contained th’ blast.”

Gamora remembers the prototypes of that shield – the small, red ball bearings that created an almost impenetrable field. Rocket had tested it relentlessly against rifle blasts and concussive blows, knives and swords. It had held up under the onslaught, to Rocket’s pleasure, but it was never rated to contain the full power of a bomb.

The ruined room, the groaning beams, the choking smoke and smoldering embers bring Peter to amend, “Sorta.”

He flashes a shaky, pained smile, something almost triumphant, but his expression folds in on itself as his body seizes, racked with pain. It passes, after the longest second of Gamora’s life, and he blinks up at her, dazed.

“I... am I dyin’?”

“ _No._ ” The word rips its way out of her throat, vicious and terrified. “No. We’re getting you help. Just conserve your energy and stay awake.”

He lets out a rattling breath, and she thinks it’s meant to be a laugh. “Dunno that I can do that.”

“You can, and you will, or I’ll kill you myself.”

She draws her arm beneath his knees, her other arm securely wrapped around his back, and she gets to her feet. His weight is awkward, but nowhere near cumbersome, and she _runs._ She bounds over debris, over bodies. She forces herself to block out the small, ugly noises he makes with her every movement, forces herself to ignore the way he grasps weakly at the lapels of her coat, his hands shaking and covered in blood.

_He won’t make it,_ a traitorous voice whispers at the back of her mind. She remembers fire and blood and screaming, so much _screaming_ , and she remembers the stench of blood and ozone and freshly turned dirt, and she remembers the silhouette of the Mad Titan, blotting out the sun as he stood over her, smiling in a mockery of kindness and reaching out his hand and—

Something cracks overhead, and she skids to a stop, spinning and shielding Peter with her body. A part of the ceiling falls, blocking the hallway – the most expedient exit. Gamora screams with frustration, but she casts around, spotting another corridor.

“’Mora.” She freezes, glancing down at Peter as he reaches up, his bloodied hand resting against her cheek. “’Mora.”

“Stop it, Peter,” she snaps, desperate and panicked. “Save your breath—”

“If I don’t make it—”

“ _Shut up,_ Peter—”

“I love you.”

Her throat closes up and panic chokes her, and she remembers watching her mother and father cut down before her eyes and—

“I love you,” he says, desperate and insistent. “I love you. So much. You know that, right?”

She can’t find the words to respond, and her eyes prickle. The smoke, she tells herself. It’s just the smoke. _Not_ the suffocating finality of it all, the hopelessness clawing up her spine.

“’Mora. Gamora.” His shaking hand presses more firmly against her cheek. “Please. You know I love you, right?”

Gamora takes a shuddering breath, nodding too quickly. In a ragged whisper she says, “Of course I do.”

Peter smiles and says, “Good. Okay.”

His hand slips from her cheek, his eyes flutter shut, and he falls limp in her arms.

 

**vi.**

Being dead is more painful than he thought it’d be.

Dying wasn’t much better. There had been a lot of noise. A lot of shouting. A lot of movement and panic and _pain_. He’s been in that in-between place more than he likes to think about, been standing on that very edge, staring down at that long, endless drop and resigning himself to fate. Everyone dies, he’s been told, over and over again, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Yondu’s. Everyone dies, so you make _damn_ sure your death is a good one.

He thinks this one fit the bill pretty cleanly.

Except—

He hurts. A lot. A dull, reverberating ache that drills down into his core, echoes up throughout every inch of his body. The sort of pain that tells him that _breathing_ is already a tall order; _moving_ will be next to impossible. There’s a ringing in his ears, and dull, constant beeping nearby, and a sound that reminds him of someone sawing wood. If this is the afterlife, he thinks, this seems... mundane as hell.

“Peter.”

A whisper, a familiar voice, and he drifts further to the surface.

“Peter,” the voice says again, and he feels a gentle caress against his cheek. “Wake up.”

_Where’s my “please”?_ he wants to ask, but his voice is long gone, buried beneath the muck. That touch turns to a palm, cupping his jaw, and he feels a careful brush against the swell of his cheek. And with a touch as sweet as that, how could he ever ignore it?

Except opening his eyes hurts, too, takes far more effort than should be strictly permitted. A dim light drills straight through his head, punches a pained sound from him as he screws his eyes shut. He tries a second time, but only on the third does he manage to open his eyes and _keep_ them open, just as a green blur swims into his line of sight.

“’Mora?” His voice sounds like the wheezing of old wooden floorboards, and he winces with it.

“I’m here,” she says, and he feels her run a hand through his hair in a slow, constant rhythm.

Peter tries to focus on her, and eventually, his sight resolves into an actual image. Gamora, sitting in a chair at his bedside. Drax, in another chair stationed beside the door. Rocket, curled at the foot of his bed with a young Groot, now about the same size as Rocket. Mantis and Kraglin, curled on an uncomfortable-looking couch beside the window. Everyone fast asleep, except for Gamora.

Relief floods into him, then, seeing his friends – his _family_ – safe all around him, though he can’t remember why. He sinks into the thin mattress with a low sigh, tension draining slowly away from him.

“What happened?”

Gamora’s lips press together in a thin, unhappy line, and she stands from her seat, retrieving a glass and filling it with a pitcher of water. She returns, helping to lift Peter’s head while he drinks. She’s stalling, he can tell, but considering how often _he_ stalls for time – or outright tries to avoid difficult topics of conversation – he lets it slide.

“You tried to blow yourself up,” she explains, as she eases him back down atop the bed.

He frowns at her, affronted but, unfortunately, not entirely surprised, as he casts back. Slowly, the memories crawl back to him. The slavers. The job. That one, desperate bastard who had tried to kill them all. The bomb.

Peter grimaces when he remembers what he had done, how he had barrelled into the control room without a second thought, earned a bullet to the gut as the bomb ticked down the seconds. _Five. Four. Three—_ He had flung out the ball bearings, then, and they had formed around the bomb, clicking into place. _Two. One—_

The shield had absorbed the worst of the explosion, but not all of it, and the concussive blast had knocked Peter and the slaver away, had showered them in shrapnel and debris.

Which apparently landed him here, with Gamora wearing a grim expression. She’s pale and drawn, her hair drawn back into a messy bun in a way she usually reserves for when she doesn’t have time to look after it properly.

“Are you okay?” he asks on reflex.

She stares at him for a second, completely disbelieving.

“Am _I_ okay?” she echoes. “Peter, you nearly _died_ , and you’re asking if _I’m_ okay?”

He pauses, chewing over his words. Then slowly, he says, “... yes?”

Gamora scoffs at him – quietly, in deference to their snoozing teammates. “ _I’m_ fine. _You’re_ the one in a hospital bed.”

Peter looks down at himself, then, recognizing the too-white blankets and sheets, the too-white look of his hospital gown, and he grimaces again.

“Not a good look for me.”

She lets out a sharp, disapproving sigh, matched by an equally scathing glare. She repeats, “You nearly _died._ ”

“Yeah,” he says slowly again. If it didn’t sound too exhausting, he might fidget where he lies. “But I... didn’t?”

Another sigh, and Gamora crosses her arms over her chest, still glaring at him. He should probably apologize, he thinks, but this isn’t the first time he’s nearly met his maker. This isn’t the first time one of them had nearly been dropped in the line of duty, and it wasn’t likely to be the last. They knew what they were getting into with their assignments, more often than not, knew that things were likely to go pear-shaped no matter how easy the job looked on paper. _Death_ was always a high possibility.

This was no different.

“You nearly died,” she says a third time, and Peter winces, trying to figure out what to _say._ Gamora beats him to it, though, and murmurs, “And all I could do was watch.”

... Oh.

_Now_ he gets it.

He’s been in those shoes before, more times than he ever wanted to be. Helpless, useless, terrified as someone he cared about was torn from his hands, screaming into a void for it to stop, please stop, please _fix this, I’ll do anything, please, please, please—_ He never wants to be in that position again.

... But apparently, it never occurred to him that his choices might force someone to stand in his stead.

He tries to sit up, but his traitorous body sends pain surging through him, punching an ugly noise out of him. Gamora sits up, alarmed, taking hold of his elbow and trying to force him to lie back. He cuts her a stubborn look, and she resigns herself to helping him sit upright, propping him up with pillows.

“Satisfied?” she asks.

“Extremely,” he lies, a hand pressing against his aching ribs. He wastes at least a minute trying to catch his breath, before he reaches out, trying to take hold of her hand. She seems to understand his intention, because she reluctantly takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You found me?”

“I did,” she says, voice dangerously flat. “You suffered a great deal of blunt force trauma, apparently, along with a bullet wound and a concussion.”

“So nothing serious,” he says. Gamora scowls at him before he lifts his free hand in surrender. “I’m kidding.”

She sighs, sitting straighter in her chair. It’s a posture she sometimes adopts when she feels vulnerable, Peter thinks, like perfect posture might make her look more intimidating? He’s not sure.

“Peter,” she starts, but she frowns down at her lap when that doesn’t lead anywhere. He waits as she tries to regroup, nervousnesss percolating in his stomach, but he knows better than to try to interrupt her while she’s thinking. “You told me you loved me.”

And he frowns, confused. “Yeah,” he says. “That... I mean, that shouldn’t be a surprise by now.” He hasn’t been _shy_ about telling her he loved her, after all, and as Mantis had suggested, the more he said it, the easier it became.

“No,” she agrees, and she schools her expression into something carefully impassive, which is _really_ worrying. “You were dying, and you told me you loved me.”

“... Yeah.” He has the sudden desire to make himself small. “That sounds about right.”

“But you didn’t ask me to say it back.”

Peter blinks at her, still completely lost. He doesn’t remember that, but it _sounds_ right. Gamora seems to expect an answer, though, and he offers a lame, practically pointless, “Right.” He pauses, then asks, “Where are you going with this?”

Apparently it’s Gamora’s turn to look confused, because she _stares_ at him, disbelieving and puzzled, and, in a moment that would surely never happen again, at a complete loss.

Peter lets out a slow breath, picking at a fold on his covers. He asks, “If had asked you to say it right then and there, would you have wanted to?”

Gamora stays silent for a second. Then another. Then a third. He counts the beats of silence out to the quiet beeping of the heart monitor he’s hooked up to, and when it reaches a fifth beat, Peter sighs quietly. It... almost feels like a punch to the gut, sometimes, these little silences immediately after he says the words, but he’s growing used to it. They’re small things, he knows, they’re just _words_ , but they have so much weight to them, so much meaning. Words have always been more his thing than hers, anyway, so Peter understands. He gets it. Maybe months and months ago, Peter would _need_ her to say it back, but these days, he finds he doesn’t.

She’s happy, he’s happy, and he thinks that together, they’re better than they were apart. He doesn’t believe in soulmates, but he _does_ believe in best friends. In two halves of a whole. And that’s what Gamora is to him.

“That’s why,” he says, shrugging. “I told you before, right? I only want you to tell me if you’re ready.”

They fall quiet again, the soft (and not so soft) snores of the Guardians surrounding them. Peter guesses it must be late in the night, with how quiet the hospital seems. He’s sad to say he’s almost an expert when it comes to hospitals, which regularly make his skin crawl, and he’s already planning his escape. They can’t force you to stay, he knows all too well; they can only strongly suggest you stick around for treatment. If he wants to leave, the staff won’t stop him. The _team_ , however, might have opinions to the contrary and might try to, like, handcuff him to the bed.

He’s startled out of his thoughts as Gamora’s hand reaches up to cup his cheek, tilting his chin up so he can meet her gaze. Her touch is gentle and warm, and he leans into it unconsciously.

She searches his face, and there’s an uncharacteristic nervousness in her gaze, a hesitance he’s not sure he’s ever seen before. She glances around the room, and even though none of their teammates have stirred, she still silently pulls her chair closer, until she’s mere inches away from him.

“Peter,” she says. Another false start, and he watches as she takes a rallying breath. “I...”

Gamora’s jaw clenches with obvious frustration, and she exhales sharply through her nose. Peter, in the meantime, holds his breath and goes fantastically _still_.

“I love you,” she whispers, and he only _barely_ catches it.

He feels giddiness bubble up in him, something bright and effervescent that makes him grin, and he reaches up to cover the hand she has against his cheek, his chest clenching sweetly in a way that makes it hard to breathe.

“I know,” he replies, and he closes the space between them, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss.


End file.
